What would life be without sticky notes and lists? I jot reminders and post them helter-skelter around the house, hoping to remember who I am and what I need to accomplish in any given block of time. I float from dream to dream, idea to idea, task to task. Few are completed at one go and sadly, some won’t ever be. Completion does not come easy for me.
“Me neither,” God says. “But that’s not all bad. There’s something to be said for process. Say, could I borrow some toenail clippers?”
I lean back and imagine managing the overgrown toenails of the living God. I see rippled volcanic lava, gradually and graciously colonized by umbilicate lichens drifting in and attaching for the great breaking down. Lichens are neither plant nor animal. They’re a union between fungi and algae, like gay cowpokes enduring unbelievable conditions just to dance. Their symbiotic version of the two-step may be our last, best hope for shaping the wild eruptions of creation, for taming the deadly individualisms and cult-like allegiances poisoning the downstream waters.
“Sure,” I say. “I have a lot of clippers, but none of them work very well. Are you still limber enough to get at your toes? It’s easy to lose your balance at your age.”
“Ha!” Creation smiles lime green and orange through all the particular lichens rejoicing in rain-induced frenetic growth, doing their magical photosynthetic work. Reindeer and slugs, ibex and snails, feasting. Lava, giving way. Breaking down. I’m jealous of all that power.
“Let it go,” God says. “Envy does not become you.”
“But what should I do?” I ask. “I want to be helpful. Your nails are atrocious.”
“You flatter me,” God laughs. “But seriously, give up on the sticky notes. Expose your upper cortex to light. And when things dry up, let the wind take you where it will.”
I comb my fingers through my bedhead hair. “I’ve tried,” I say. “I just can’t.”
Doubt and fear cloud my mind. I don’t know what to say to myself. God slides in, calms the turbulence, and builds us a nest in an old growth forest. Sage gray lichen grows thick and innocent on the bark of the chosen tree.
The slow shape of Compassion crawls toward the primordial soup, a sea turtle of advancing years and infinite patience.
“Wait!” I shout, running toward the Turtle. “Are there words for this?”
The Turtle just blinks and dives, leaving the shore littered with outdated phrases, false depictions, sharp chunks of lava, and long, irrelevant lists. I settle among this brokenness and wait for the tide to come in.
The tide always comes in.
Short visits with an honest God 